


Weight of Love

by OneMoreWander



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 16:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneMoreWander/pseuds/OneMoreWander
Summary: A testimony to sacrifice and the price of such rewards. There is no escaping this trap.





	

_You’ll be on my mind._

_Don’t give yourself away._

_To the weight of,_

_The weight of…_

She was perfect. Like a faerie she fluttered about the motions of others, circling through them with ease and inaccessible grace. Her body lithe and nimble as she dances between the crowd, carrying her one arm well above her head as the other travels lower, gently caressing her exposed navel, pinching her small waist and sweet hips, wrapping around her toned skin. Long brown hair falls like water past her shoulders; it stops at the small of her back. She is a black hole, and all eyes are drawn to her – except for a single pair.

They were not drawn by the syrupy sting of a succubus but dragged by the grasp of the devil. Gripping the soul’s gaze in a mighty fist as she draws near, her eyes open with a butterfly’s kiss and lands on him. He welcomes the danger her actions scream with a hesitant smile and a clearing of his throat. He tries to escape the others’ deadly stares and icy glares but her claws have somehow dug into him and he is unable to flee, stilled by her persuasion. Target inbound, locked and ready, she shatters the space between them with an exhale and a coy smirk.

“Don’t look so afraid,” she says and the air in front of him seems to ripple, “I won’t bite.”

“I didn’t think as much.”

“Sharp,” she laughs more so than says. Her eyes lighten with mischief as she drags a nearby stool from its place a foot away and perches herself on it. Reflexively, his eyes catch the bounce of her breasts. The woman, perhaps noticing this, leans forward so that her low cut dress emphasizes her cleavage and tilts her head innocently. “Anyway, what brings a man like you here tonight?”

His eyebrows furrow on instinct. “‘A man like me’?”

 “Oh, you know what I mean.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Introverted, nerdy office-worker type.”

“I don’t even work in an office-“

“You’re wearing a dress shirt, tie, and khakis to a nightclub drenched in sweat and sex. Forgive me if I’m assuming the complete opposite here but you’re definitely giving off the vibe of some scholar sitting on the edge of a work related breakdown.” She flashes him a white grin and flicks his glass. “Is that Kraken? Guess you really are done, huh.”

Instead of answering her with words he drags the rum closer to him and shifts in his seat so that his back is facing the rave of the dance floor. For a moment he believes that the young woman is going to grow bored of his rejection and silence, but apparently her curiosity is thriving and soon enough she is following his lead and turning to the bar. Crossing her elbows on the counter, she flags down the bartender and orders a Kamikaze without ice.

“What? Didn’t want anything stronger than your personality?”

She barks a lovely laugh. “So the quiet kid has jokes! As a matter of fact I prefer to have my wits about me, thank you very much. I see you’re not one for doing so – at least not at the moment.”

“I try to forget when I want to,” he shrugs. The glass moves closer but is not lifted. He thumbs the base of it. “What’s your reason for being here?”

“What’s it matter?”

This time he’s the one laughing incredulously. He leans onto the counter with his arm and taps his other hand on his thigh. “How is it that you can lay my entire life before me but I can’t ask you, as in actually _ask_ you, why you’re here?” Lowering his voice so that it is barely above the noise of music, he says, “don’t be so hesitant. I won’t bite.”

From here their conversation takes on an atmosphere of camaraderie and flirtation, the two fumbling around invisible lines, unsure of where to cross and what to avoid. The man catches her name from a story of her father, whom she did a horrible impression of, scolding her with a firm, ‘Dea, what is the meaning of this?’ The name piqued his interest and for a while he drowned out the rest of her tale with his thoughts. Dea, pronounced as Day-uh, is a Latin indication of a goddess. Unbeknownst to her – most likely – the name is very fitting. Her spirit was not unlike a goddess caged in a mortal body, its beauty too magnificent to be hidden.

Dea learns his name by requesting it. He intended on leaving it at “Park,” but her desire is insatiable and, arguing that him learning hers was a mistake and that the right thing to do was to pay it forward, she demanded his first name. “Waylon.” She rolled his name around her tongue like a sweet tart, tasting it at all angles until it melted and she could swallow without biting. The next time they make eye contact Waylon finds a gleam in that sea of emerald that wasn’t there before.

The night goes on in what is now a rush. People enter and leave the club without sparing the two a glance. They don’t care either way; no one besides the bartender could have interrupted their trance anyway. Dea edges closer to Waylon throughout the hour, sneakily placing her knee against his and exposing more of her flesh. None of it goes unnoticed, but he makes no effort to point out her promiscuity (or do anything himself). He allows her to play her game alone while he enjoys the view and small talk, content with indulging her affinity for storytelling and boisterous animation.

If she wasn’t so perfect, the night could have lasted longer.

But soon the bodies on the dance floor start to disperse and the bartender refuses to heed their calls, announcing to the nearby guests that the bar is closing for the night. It takes some time for most of the party goers to clear out, and then the few stragglers who refuse to leave are promptly herded out.  When the bouncers turn their hardened expressions to Dea and Waylon, he offers to pay for both of them, drops a wad of cash on the counter by his full drink, and nudges Dea’s hips to get her moving out the door.

Once outside she twirls, or more precisely stumbles, and throws her palms out to the moon. “Oh Waylon, that was wonderful!” she exclaims in the midst of giggles and spins again. “I was expecting to come here and be bored out of my mind, but you,” she suddenly stops mid-spin with her back facing Waylon and looks over her shoulder, draping her flowing hair below her waist. “You changed that. Thank you.”

Waylon’s smile is soft as he scratches the back of his neck and looks away. “It wasn’t anything special. You’re pretty good company yourself.”

A loud snort resounds through the empty parking lot. “Pretty good? That sounds cheap, Way.” Dea places her hands on her hips and smirks. “I’m the best damn company you’ve ever had, don’t lie.”

“You can say that.”

Dea rolls her eyes and stops her stroll to wait for Waylon to catch up to her. When he does she immediately latches on to his arm. “Denial is not your forte, Waylon. C’mon, be honest. You’d want to do this again, wouldn’t you?” She says, her words coming off as the truth despite the question in them. She leans her head against his shoulder and watches him from below, seeing the clench of his jaw without comprehending. The alcohol in her system has muddled her verbal filter, making her voice more desperate, as per usual, but for some reason she feels acute sense of awareness — no, sensitivity — with Waylon. Every twitch of his skin sends a similar one down her side and straight to a well of warmth building in her gut, simmering like butterflies dowsed in boiling water. She presses against his side to convey a silent message, stares at him with hopeful eyes and flushed cheeks, feeling the itch of fabric on her burning skin grow.

“Waylon…” she basically whines and practically yelps when his hand finally grabs her arms. She prepares herself for what’s come only to be disappointed when he holds her at arm’s length and scans over her with scrutiny in his eyes. The expression on his face is far from what she wanted. “Waylon, can we hurry up and-“

“Did you drive yourself here?”

Dea is taken aback by the question. She waits for his patronizing stare to end but when it doesn’t she nods. “Yeah, so? Wouldn’t-“ a hiccup interrupts her “-be my first time driving home drunk. Don’t live far anyway.” She’s about to tell him that the daddy kink isn’t supposed to be taken seriously when an idea springs to life. Carefully, as to not startle him, she grabs on to his wrists and wiggles them down, eyes locked on Waylon, until his hands are at the same level as her breasts. She knows the action is telling, but a bite of her bottom lip and a flutter of her eyelashes seals the deal she cares very little of hiding.

She squeezes her arms to her chest. “Unless you’re offering to take me home… That way you’ll know I’ll be safe.”

It’s a lie and the truth mixed into one, and she counts the seconds until a tight nod from Waylon and cup of her waist gives her a much needed reply. The melting pot in her stomach spills completely and she pulls Waylon down into a fierce kiss, pressing all of herself against him until she is stumbling in drunkenly passionate stupor. Waylon responds well, grabbing where he should, seemingly throwing all of his reservation to the side now that she has taken the first step. It takes a long time for them to reach the car, and when he practically throws her into the back seat she can feel her dress already bundling at her hips. She crawls to the opposite side with her legs spread, lips parted and beckoning Waylon to her with her lust. He loosens his tie and pulls something from his pocket as he crawls into the backseat with her, fumbling with whatever is in his hand.

Dea moans when he touches her. “Waylon – _ah_ – I didn’t think,” she drags him into another kiss, tongue clashing with teeth, before pulling away to speak against his lips. “Were you planning this?”

“No,” he whispers.

She can’t help the smile that tugs on the corners of her lips. “So you just brought a condom with you just in case?” She kisses along his jaw line. “What a devil.”

“Yes,” he sighs, fumbling with his hand again, tearing something open with one hand. A wrapper. Dea presses herself against the cushion of the seat and hikes up her dress, smiling, eyes closed, and parts her legs for Waylon to nestle between them.

A broad hand lifts one of her thighs, kneading the soft skin that screams perfection. Dea, the goddess, so beautiful and perfect.

He leans over her and tries to memorize the contours of her sweet face before bringing the cloth forward and pressing it against her mouth and nose.

The scent of chloroform is strong. Her eyes fly open and she tries to scream, kicking out from under him and scratching at his shirt and tie in desperation. Tears well in her eyes and spill over rosy cheeks; she makes the mistake of gasping which allows Waylon to shove the rag into her mouth and in her nostrils. Cold, night air blows into the car and wraps around them, a welcome chill to the building heat in the car, and he holds the rag to her face a good thirty seconds after her body stills and goes limp.

 

_You’ll be on your side..._

 

The drip of blood hitting the floor is not something that he will ever get over, nor will he ever truly overcome to stomach churning odor of death. He doesn’t look up anymore; there are too many bodies to count now. Too many years spent staring at the ceiling and wondering when it had all went wrong. He trudges past puddles of crimson with a sense of duty coursing through him. The body behind him? It means nothing. He tightens his grip on the black garbage bag and jerks it forward, through a few splotches of blood and makes the mistake of glancing back at it. There’s a trail behind him now.

Dea looked so much better outside of the plastic.

But alas, he has a delivery to make and punctuality is key. So he exhales the horror and disgust from his mind and inhales the pride of having found a jewel. The Groom will love her. Eddie will be so proud.

 Once through the gymnasium’s doors he follows the whir of a bone saw until he finds Eddie in his workshop. The man hovers over his most recent work with a look of frustration on his face, hands soaked in the blood of an older victim. He does not notice Waylon immediately, but when he does the expression of frustration crumbles into relief. He smiles wide and gestures for him.

 “Darling! You’re back. Did you find what you were looking for?”

Waylon shuffles into the room. “Nope,” he says, trying the hide the rustle of the bag by knocking into the table.

Eddie’s joy falters, and he places the bone saw down on the table to free his hands. He massages one of his wrists and tsks. “Oh. Better luck next time then-”

“I found something better,” Waylon says and finally shoves the bag into view, ignoring the thin trail left from its movement. “She’s a charmer. You’ll love her.” He nods at this, positive of his words. Pride flourishes in him when Eddie’s eyes widen and a bright smile replaces his frown.

 

_Don’t give yourself away._

Devil, she said. Disgusting. Evil. Wretched. Demented.

 

_To the weight of…_

Sick. 

 

_The weight of…_

But he’ll stay.


End file.
